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“That’s downtown,” he says, lazily exhaling clouds of smoke, a cigarette squeezed between his thumb and forefinger. “That’s where all the shops are.”
No shit.
Downtown is decent. If you don’t look closely, it could pass for a tourist town, minus the tourists. Most people are locals, riding bikes, scooters, and shabby trucks.
We take a turn and drive along the beach side, the locals scattered out on the boardwalk, homeless dogs and seagulls picking at garbage, shirtless kids playing soccer on the beach.
“Pelican Beach,” the guard says.
I could deal without his comments. But I guess Raven is going the extra mile for me. That is, an extra mile through the town that vaguely reminds me of certain hoods in Bangkok.
The memories flood me as we keep zipping through the streets, taking me years back, to when I was younger, the day ahead long and full of adventures. Days seemed so much longer when I was a teen.
The guard points at something in the distance—what an effort—but I miss the story. I keep Raven in my peripheral. He’s chain-smoking. The driver curses someone out, then pulls up at a shady garage and whistles. Another armed guy emerges from behind a tall concrete fence, passes him a package, then casts a long look at me over the sunglasses.
“Can we drive to the Ashlands?” I ask, but my words pass unnoticed.
I guess that’s a no.
We stop at a street food stall, and the guard next to me jumps out, the line of people scooting back to let him in as he picks up plates of food and, without paying, brings them to the car.
“Pupusas,” he explains, and the taste explodes in my mouth with local herbs, grease, and the flavors that are superior in street food to any Michelin restaurant.
We keep going but now run business errands, zooming from one location to another, dropping off the package they just got and picking up a crate that the guy sets down at the back of the jeep, a crate wrapped in a tarp, one corner slightly hitched up to reveal a biohazard sticker.
I don’t ask questions, but now I understand what Marlow said about Raven—he’s not your regular dealer, considering he’s the one who’s in charge of weapon contracts on Zion.
Shady exchanges, shady neighborhoods, shady handshakes—I’ve seen it before, except Raven doesn’t get out of the car even once.
The Jeep slows down, driving along another narrow back street when Raven speaks for the first time, “Pull over before we reach Coco Jumbo.”
“Why?” the driver asks.
“Don’t want to flash her around.”
Huh.
When the Jeep stops, Raven pulls a handgun from under the seat and tucks it inside the waistband of his jeans, then reaches down to fix his jean cuffs—another gun, and the realization makes me perk up.
“Stay put,” he says, his voice sharper this time as he and the guard from the back seat walk out onto the street.
The driver stays behind,guardingme or whatever the deal is. He props his booted foot against the dashboard and lights a cigarette.
“What’s in Coco Jumbo?” I lean with my elbows on his seat.
“A meeting.”
“With who?”
“Business.”
“What kind of business that I can’t go?”
He lazily puffs out the smoke and turns to look at me, then turns away. There’s a seven-flame grenade tattoo on the inside of his forearm—Foreign Legion, impressive.
“What’s your name?” I say, making sure he can hear friendliness in my voice as I lean forward onto his seat and snake my arms closer to his neck.
He slowly takes a drag and puffs out the smoke. “James.”
